Resistance
by Maleday
Summary: Draco knew exactly what the Dark Lord wanted him to say. He wanted Draco to request to join the Death Eaters, to beg for the Dark Mark to be branded into his arm so that he could conjure it in the sky. But knowing he'd be marked either way, Draco decided it'd not be by his own choice. WARNING: Dark themes including gore/torture/murder


_A/N: I know there are many "Draco gets marked" stories out there. Consider this my (hopefully unique) drop in the ocean. It a scene that is referred to in my story The Savior and The Demon. Many thanks to **USMCcAnthem **and **Dissedent **for their beta help! This is for Lamia's Test Your Limits Competition, Round 2. _

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_The Mighty Oak stands wide and tall,_

_F__or courage and strength and power._

_Aloof and free, never to fall, _

_It judges those that cower._

The body lay sprawled on the ground, limbs twisted oddly. Blood was seeping into the earth. Wide eyes stared up at the sky, shining in the reflected light of the moon. The frigid night air was thick with the smell of new decay, acrid and foul. The haunting greenish residue of dark magic swarmed around the body and swirled up toward the heavens like smoke from a fire.

Stillness echoed powerfully all around the meadow, making the racking, ringing shrieks from moments before seem weak in comparison. The broad, curved bows of the oak tree shook noiselessly in the wind, as if laughing in the face of death. Soon, too soon, slow footsteps approached the body, barely distinguishable through the roar of silence.

"Well done, Draco," the Dark Lord spoke, venom coating the pleasure apparent in his tone. "You even managed to burst the viscera without a wand." His pale, bare foot came out from beneath his robes and prodded the ravaged stomach of the body before him, greedily soaking in the crimson blood.

Draco looked away from the glistening eyes of his victim and into the gleaming red ones he feared so much. With studied effort, he brought each muscle of his face under his control and held it firmly in a neutral expression.

"Thank you, my Lord," he spoke in his perfectly dull, subservient tone. He'd come to despise hearing it in his own voice, yet he depended on it to survive.

The Dark Lord's mouth curled into a smile and he stepped around the body in three swift strides.

"And what is the appropriate thing to do now?" he asked, his tone heavy with dooming implication. He took another deliberate step towards Draco.

Draco fought against every instinct urging him to back away from the Dark Lord. His heels itched to move, even the slightest bit, but he knew it wouldn't help. Even while his mind searched frantically for a way out, he knew he was hopelessly trapped. He did not have the ability to do what the Dark Lord expected. Not yet.

"The Dark Mark must be conjured," Draco answered finally, "My Lord always seeks to claim his work."

Draco knew exactly what the Dark Lord wanted him to say. He wanted Draco to request to join the Death Eaters, to beg for the Dark Mark to be branded into his arm so that he could conjure it in the sky. He knew that by not complying with the Dark Lord's obvious expectation, he was taking a risk, one that could earn him a slow, torturous death. Still, after the murder he'd just committed, Draco's despondency overcame his fear. If he were to be marked either way, it would not be by his own choice.

It did not escape the Dark Lord's notice that Draco was avoiding the obvious question. His demonic eyes narrowed and, in a flash, he swiped up Draco's left wrist and yanked it towards him.

"What I _seek _is to have servants to carry out and claim my work themselves," he clarified, hissing so harshly that Draco could feel his wrath in the back of his own throat.

Draco's chest constricted and he concentrated on keeping his breathing even. As the leathery hand slowly slid his sleeve up his arm, he struggled to remember the excuses his mother had thought of to spare him from the burden his father bore: too young, yet untested…

Of course, it was inevitable now that he'd murdered for the Dark Lord. The ability to conjure the snake devouring skull was demanded to mark his kill. Even his mother hadn't prepared for a situation like this. There was nothing Draco could do now, so he stayed silent, resigned to his fate.

The Dark Lord's wand bearing arm arched over Draco's forearm and his robe slipped down to his elbow. Silhouetted by the moonlight, it appeared like a branch from the oak tree that still laughed down at the scene below, as though mocking Draco's lack of courage. Draco wanted to scream at the oak, to ask what right it had to judge. _What else could he possibly do? _

"My Lord, I am unworthy," Draco spoke hastily, unable to keep the gasp of pain from his words as the tip of the Dark Lord's wand scorched his unprotected skin.

"You performed well tonight," The Dark Lord answered in a mild tone, as if distracted by the task at hand. He pushed his wand deeper into Draco's arm and grinned at the cry it provoked, his snake-like features twisting into an expression of delight.

"And, with the task I've assigned to you at Hogwarts," –his smile became menacing, his scarlet eyes gleaming with dark intentions— "it is only right that I honor you with the mark of my servants. You will have a chance to prove that you are not an unworthy failure like your father."

Draco clenched his teeth tight to stop from screaming at the anguish that desecrated its way through his arm. Now more desperate than brave, he tried yet again to dissuade the Dark Lord.

"I am underage, my Lord," he started, uncaring at how pleading his voice had become, "My faithfulness cannot be assured. If it could just wait until I can make the choice- Aghh!" Draco stared at the source of his agony with horror as a black, ink-like substance flowed from the Dark Lord's wand into his arm, burning and desolating a path through his skin.

"I choose for you, Draco. Am I not your Lord?" the Dark Lord asked in a malicious tone. He moved his wand from Draco's arm and pressed it under his chin, lifting Draco's head up until their eyes met.

Draco felt the Dark Lord delve into his mind, shattering what meager barriers he had, where he quickly found the memory of Narcissa Malfoy instructing Draco to ask the Dark Lord to delay marking him. The Dark Lord withdrew, sneering contemptuously.

"Your mother loves you very much," he stated in displeasure, "Pity."

Draco felt the sweat glide down his face when he recognized the threat against his mother in the Dark Lord's voice.

"After all, what is _love_?" the Dark Lord asked.

Draco swallowed and his lip flexed upward with barely discernible scorn before he answered dully, as though reciting from a spell book, "A weakness."

"_Exactly_," the Dark Lord hissed before stabbing his wand back into Draco's arm, overflowing the boy with pain. His eyes shimmered with greed as he watched Draco writhe and twist and scream, exactly like the Muggle-born whose life Draco had just ended. Even in the midst of his torture, Draco noted the irony. He deserved no less.

Draco focused all his energy on staying upright. He tried to concentrate on the cool wind blowing at the back of his neck in an effort to ignore the torment in his arm. He was unsuccessful; the liquid fire tearing through his veins would not allow distraction. The instant the Dark Lord released his grip on Draco's wrist, he crumpled to the ground, clutching his newly branded arm.

He panted, his face inches from the ground. Blood dripped from his nose, mixing with the earth beneath him.

When his breathing finally slowed and the pain eased, he lifted his eyes only to realize he was bowing at the Dark Lord's bloodstained feet.

"Get up, Draco. Take out your wand."

Stifling a groan, Draco stumbled to his feet. He pulled out his Hawthorne wand with his uninjured hand. His actions felt stiff and displaced from himself, as though he were under the Imperius.

With dread, he raised his throbbing left arm and held it out under the moonlight. The mark was vibrant against his pale skin. It almost looked like it was actively protruding, the snake coming at him through the skull, ready to devour him as well. It was both beautiful and hideous: an eternal disfigurement.

In that one look, Draco knew that he was no longer free. His choices were no longer his own. His thoughts, even memories, belonged solely to the Dark Lord.

His hand shook as he pressed his wand into the mark. He frowned at his own display of emotion, glaring at his hand until it stilled. Then he took a rasping breath and said with harsh clarity:

"_Morsmordre!" _

Green light shot into the sky from his arm, illuminating clouds and warping them into the skull and snake. Draco had seen it before, but knowing it came from him sent a cold rush straight into his soul.

He stared up at the haunting green eye sockets of the skull, sure that their emptiness matched his own. They showed nothing, asked no questions, told no lies. They simply announced destruction.

But the longer Draco stared, the more his vision blurred until, for a brief moment, he saw the eyes of the skull appear.

They reflected pure moonlight.


End file.
